The sweet, sticky scent of petrichor hung over London in a dark overcast.
Harry Potter mercilessly crushed a dandelion with his polished boot—flattening the golden weed in one, fluid motion.
His fingers wrapped around the bright red handle to the telephone booth, and he swung inside swiftly. Once the door closed with a soft click behind him, he slumped against one of the square window frames helplessly. Pellets of rain drummed against the room rhythmically, rivers of rain sliding down the outside of the booth as the drops raced to the finish line.
Harry reached for the crimson-colored phone, punching plastic numbers into a dusty keypad. He brushed his hands off on his overcoat with a crooked scowl—glaring at the streaks of gray that littered his jacket. Dread pooled in his stomach as the line began ringing, butterflies gleefully taking up the chance to kiss his stomach in a frenzy of anxiety.
"Hello?"
He ran a hand through his hair, mousy ebony matted to his forehead. "Hello, Hermione."
"Harry?" Hermione Granger's voice was laced with worry and the faint drull of sleepiness. "Why are you calling at this time of night? Is something the matter?"
Harry blinked, silently cursing himself for not remembering the hours of distance between them. Hermione had been offered a job proposition in America. Much to her husband's dismay, Hermione had agreed to travel to the states, and they were staying in the small estate that Harry had lent them.
"Ah, time change," Harry stammered. "Sorry, 'Mione. How's America treating you?" He squinted through one of the misty windows of the telephone booth, startling at the sudden burst of wind that slammed against the thick glass. Harry felt dizzy with the succession of diverging Hermione off-topic as a wave of thunder rolled through the midnight air.
Harry's silver tongue was a gift from God. A poisoned glass of sparkling wine. It only seemed to bounce into effect when the lesser situations arrived and twisted itself in the grander. He used to think of it as a nuisance but had gradually learned how to recover from the disadvantage in the past few years. Now, it proved to be taking up its well-awaited use.
Hermione's tone softened. "It's nice. My accent makes me stand as the odd one out, but I've received many compliments about sounding posh." Harry let out an amused chuckle as she went on. "But now, Harry Potter, quit trying to change the subject! Why did you reach out so late? Surely it can't just be because you want to ask how I am."
Harry shrugged as a light pink flush crept up the sides of his neck, and curled around the rounds of his ears. He shamelessly spoke words that had nothing to do with his friend's question. "Mage Dumbledore lost his pocket watch again."
Albus Dumbledore was one of the most well-known illusionists in Europe. An illusionist was a person who performed tricks to deceive the eye—a trait that Dumbledore had covered from the beginning. After Harry had graduated, he had pleaded for Dumbledore to hire Harry as his apprentice. Harry wanted to be known for something other than the fame he had acquired at boarding school. And yet, it must've worked, for Dumbledore had humbly accepted Harry's request.
In Harry's time at Langdale—the school for the prodigious—many of his fellow peers had been convinced that he was to one day steal the position of the Minister.
When news of his apprenticeship had spread throughout Langdale—Harry Potter was involving himself in something as silly as illusions?—the post office had to start splitting up his mail into weekly deliveries, for he was receiving too many letters per day. Every so often, a crowd of elders would tower over Harry, plucking out everything that he could've been.
Yet, Dumbledore wasn't interested in the power that Harry cradled in the palms of his hands.
The Mage was interested in his opportunities—which my God, he had so much of. (Unless you're excluding the stack of job requests that the Ministry would send him every hour.)
Hermione groaned, and a trickle of static took over the line for a brief second. "Dumbledore seems to have a certain fondness for 'losing' his pocket watch." Her words sounded crackly as if someone had shoved a pin down her throat. "Perhaps next time—if you're daring enough—you could even assist him in finding it."
Harry tossed his head back in hearty laughter, trailing off when a particularly blinding flash of lightning illuminated St. Matthew's street. "Mustn't you fret, 'Mione. I don't mind it. Besides, what is there to do at my flat, anyways? I've already counted how many panels line the ceiling . . . how many wooden tiles are on the floor . . . I'd much rather keep myself entertained by fake magic than put up with another nightmare."
"Nightmare?" Hermione sounded distant.
Harry's pupils blew into full moons of shadows. He yanked the phone away from his ear, silencing Hermione's protests. Muffled sentences spilled from the speakers—and when Harry couldn't bear it anymore—he slammed the device against its holder with a metallic click.
He knew that it was cruel to steal someone's words without an explanation—and he didn't possess the restraint to remain in conversation when sensitive topics as such were mentioned. But, it was impossible for Hermione to call him back other than try the land-line at his flat. The flat that Harry wouldn't return to for another lengthy half-hour. It would give him enough time to carefully collect his thoughts, and rehearse an apology speech in the washroom mirror.
Good, Harry thought bitterly. I've had enough of a show for one night.
His heart slowed to sluggish thumps as he gently closed the booth door behind him, inhaling sharply.
The tang of smoke drifted through the alleyway where the telephone booth was placed, mixed with the rainy aroma that the storm had cast through the city. The scent of cigarettes made Harry's nose scrunch up, yet he continued onwards.
The sky was a tad lighter than what it had been earlier, but the melancholy weather remained. If anything, it would grow worse by daybreak.
Harry stepped deliberately over the cluster of dandelions he had flattened previously, looking at the flowers with a sense of distorted hatred. He despised pretty things. So, in the midst of the brief trek back to his flat, Harry kept his eyes peeled for anything of the opposite sort.
His eyes felt heavy-lidded as he caught hold of a sopping letter—smashed into the pebbled sidewalk from the summer rain. His frown deepened when he noted the elaborate Ministry crest on the upper-left-hand corner of the envelope. When he grew closer, he not-so-subtly imprinted a muddy footprint onto it.
A splash of colors had begun to paint themselves just beyond the horizon, where a great battle would soon take place. The thunder would advance forwards—pleading for the pink and orange coincidence to fade—while the sunrise would brighten—refusing to surrender back to the sullen waves of the Atlantic. But, the storm had two advantages over the sunrise.
Dark clouds and blazing lightning.
Harry dragged a limp hand down his face, coating his cheeks in rain droplets. His efforts to convince himself that the storm would soon clear to the East proved useless. As he strode down the vacant path, he occupied himself with childishly hopping around puddles, jumping over cement curbsides, and leaning against street posts.
His pondering stare drifted upwards until his vision was filled with the blinding beam of a sunshine-colored lantern. He tilted his chin away almost instantly, blinking furiously to rid of the spinning stars that remained as the afterglow,
He lazily kicked a pebble into a nearby sewer, lips twisting into a grimace and the layers of moist soil that coated the soles of his boots. The clatter that echoed through the street of St. Matthew's was a small notion, but apparently loud enough to draw suspicion.
In the shop across the street, candles flickered through a set of curtain-drawn windows, and the building was architected in such a Victorian style that Harry had to awkwardly tilt his head to the side to interpret the art from the intended angle. He kept his feet firmly planted on the sidewalk, rocking back and forth impatiently as the doorknob to the store rattled. The entrance was suddenly yanked open with such force that it crashed into the marble wall behind it.
A man—who looked to be in his early sixties—peered down at Harry through a set of crooked glasses. His eyes glimmered with sheer uncertainty, and he shielded a hand over his face despite the shadows that engulfed the street.
"My apologies," the man quipped. "This rickety ol' thing gets stuck sometimes, you see. Quite the hassle when I'm in a rush, but a man's gotta get out some way." His booming laugh rebveratated through Harry's brain, practically rattling it in the process. The man ceased to a stop when Harry frowned. "What's the matter, lad? I thought I heard some bangin' outside, so I came to investigate."
"I can assure you," Harry interjected, "everything is fine."
Perfectly and utterly content.
"Hmm, 'fine'," the man muttered to himself, a slight catch in his gruff voice. "Well then, I best be on my way since everything is alright. Mr. . . . ?"
Harry's lips straightened into a thin line, catching the corner of his flat building in his peripheral vision. "Potter, sir. A pleasure. I'm sorry to have disturbed your sleep."
The man stroked his dark beard, raising a feathered eyebrow. "Please, no need for the formalities. Call me Hagrid. Is that an accent, I 'ear? Are you a Westerner? I've heard that West London is where the fancy people reside."
Harry nodded, glancing around desperately to find something that could tug him out of the lengthening conversation. "Er, not really. I attended my primary years in the West, so I must've picked it up while I was there. And West London really isn't too bad," he insisted, "just a tad more pricey."
"I see. Me and my folks live here, as you can tell." Hagrid waved a ferocious arm towards the shop. "Sellin' antiques, n' stuff. But, I wouldn't recommend stopping by. If you're lookin' for high-quality items, you should pay a visit to Borgin and Burkes. Mr. Borgin passed a few years ago, but Mr. Burke is a pretty nice lad. Organized, too."
Harry chewed on the inside of his cheek, heart swelling with regret when his canine impaled the sensitive flesh. He pressed his lips together, unwilling to speak until the blood disappeared from his mouth. "My apologies, but I must be on my way. My shift starts again in a few hours."
"Of course, Mr. Potter. Good evening." Hagrid bowed his head in feigned respect, before leaning down and straightening the cuff of his striped pajama pants.
Harry fought off the grimace that was crawling its way up his throat. "You as well."
The journey down the rest of the road was fortunately quiet. The gutters of Forest Flats rattled viciously as a downpour smothered the withering garden at the side of the building, drowning the sulking lilies.
Forest Flats was an electric green-colored building that reeks of the jungle and peppermint every time Harry came in through the main entrance. It was an odd contrast to the rest of St. Matthew's, but he always chose not to comment on the matter.
Harry tugged his arms out of his overcoat—lifting it above his head and using it as a makeshift umbrella—numb fingers trembling as he dug through his pocket in an attempt to find his flat key. When a piece of cool metal impaled his thumb, he exhaled a breath of relief and twisted the key in the lock until he heard a faint click.
Harry battled with the roaring wind to close the door, wiping a sweaty hand against his forehead when it finally barricaded itself shut. Nearly toppling over when he caught a glimpse of the eerie shadows the coat rack was casting across the wooden floor, he pinched his arm.
"Quit it, Harry," he muttered, stepping into the kitchen cautiously to avoid the silver nails that stuck out of the carpeted threshold like little daggers.
Once he kindled a vibrant flame and nursed his long-forgotten cactus back to life—(which had been an early birthday gift from his schoolmate, Neville Longbottom)—he stomped over towards one of the floor-to-ceiling windows, fogging up the glass with his shuddering breaths.
It was a sorrowful display of the backyard.
The greenhouse was filled to the brim with a frenzy of rotting vegetables, and a handful of rose-colored tulips floated down the pathway that led back to the street of St. Matthew's.
The flat was fairly new to Harry, a late present from his godfather not long after Harry had graduated. Sirius had told him that the apartment was meant to symbolize his freedom, a 'brilliant escape from that God-awful school.' Harry had only shrugged, reminding his godfather that he hadn't escaped, he had graduated, before sending the man into hysterics.
Langdale hadn't been all too despicable—save for the greedy Headmaster who considered Harry to be a glittering prize, and the kids that rolled up to class with a hundred dollars in their pockets.
Harry dug the heel of his palm into his eyelid to clear his intrusive thoughts. When he removed his hand, the world around him looked fuzzy, and his eyes locked on Hagrid's shop. With closer examination, he reddened upon the fact that the store resembled nothing to the art of Victorian architecture, and was constructed upon the same, pristine material that the surrounding buildings were.
His stare traveled towards the scene below him, where a lone antique store sang in despair. Dark tiles were in the process of slipping off of the roof, the door was falling off of its golden hinges, and a shadowed sign swung from the canopy resting over the entrance, reading—
BORGIN AND BURKES.
Harry hauled his exhausted frame away from the window, the steady drizzle outside matching his solemn mood. His shift with Dumbledore had ended less than an hour ago, and he had to be back in half.
When he stumbled back towards the entryway, the raven-haired man scowled at his dripping overcoat. He snatched a more suitable jacket off of the coat rack, shrugging on the wool coat, and reached for the doorknob.
The second he stepped outside of Forest Flats, a sharp bleeze slapped him across the face. Cheeks stinging a rosy red—Harry shoved his hands in his coat pockets.
The sound of coins inside of his jacket jangled as he moved swiftly until he couldn't handle the tinkling copper. He scooped out a mouthful of money, helplessly gazing down at the copper. He blinked slowly—letting a few of the coins slip through his fingers—and left a money trail as he ventured onwards.
When he passed that all-to-familiar telephone booth, he froze in his tracks.
Hermione's concern was likely increasing by the second, and knowing the girl, there was no doubt that she was going to let Harry off the hook if he kept stalling.
Harry sighed heavily, silently stepping inside the red booth. His fingers wrapped around the handle of the phone—pacing around anxiously as he dialed Hermione's number. Harry stiffened. If he squinted at just the right moment, he could catch a glimpse of Big Ben. The golden ticks were music to everyone that resided in London—whether it was a death toll or an angel's trumpet.
Harry startled as the ringing ceased, and Hermione was suddenly screaming in his ear.
"Harry James Potter! Do you know how worried I've been about you? I've been trying to get a hold of you for nearly an hour! I've scribbled down letters, stomped down the driveway in the middle of the night, and cried out in frustration when I realized it was Sunday!" Hermione cried.
Harry winced, toying with the idea of using her nickname. It would most likely only anger the woman furthermore, so he decided against it. "Hermione—"
"Don't you 'Hermione' me!" Her voice deepened in an impression of Harry. "Now, back to my point. Do you know why Sunday angers me, Harry? It's because the post doesn't arrive on Sunday in America! So, what brilliant excuse do you have for me now, Harry Potter?"
Harry's heart frosted over in a coat of thin ice. "'Mione—"
"I lied. I don't want to hear your excuses. All I need to hear is that you're safe and sound. You are safe and sound, aren't you?"
Harry's tongue darted out to lick his bottom lip as he wobbled unsteadily, relying on one of the window panes to assist in balance. "Yes, Hermione. I'm alright. I'm really sorry for hanging up so abruptly—I was just angry. You know I hate talking about my nightmares, so when you brought it up, I just felt . . ." He trailed off.
Anger. Betrayal. Hurt.
Harry pulled all of those thoughts out of his mind and dumped them in the nearest trash can. "I wasn't in my right mind. I'm sorry. Truly."
He could picture Hermione with her arms crossed over her chest—phone resting in the crook of her neck—sitting on her bed surrounded by crumpled notes. Ron was most likely snoring beside her, captured in a dream's deadly hold. He smiled at the image.
"You do me no good, Harry Potter," Hermione huffed exasperatedly. "Absolutely no good. You should be ashamed of yourself for making a young woman fret so late in the night. But . . . I also must apologize. I touched on a sensitive topic and wasn't considering the consequences of my actions. Or words, I suppose."
Harry perked up in hope. "All is forgiven, then?"
"All is forgiven." Her tone sharpened, much like the kitchen knife that Harry knew that she'd be throwing at him if he pulled another similar stunt in the future. "Now, if Dumbledore loses his pocket watch one more time, I swear that I'll sail straight back to London and put that old man back in his place.
Harry scoffed at her sole determination. "In normal circumstances, I'd purchase the boat ticket for you. Save for the fact that I'd not only get in major trouble, but potentially lose my apprenticeship for attempted harassment. Do you know what that means? Fewer job opportunities, and more election offers. And I think that we both know that the last thing I want in my lifetime is to become Minister."
Hermione's amused laughter was gold, diamonds, emeralds, and all the gems in the world to Harry's ears. He'd do anything to make sure that his friends were the happiest people to ever touch Earth's roots.
"Despite your negative protests, everyone knows that you'd make a wonderful Minister," Hermione insisted. "It still isn't too late to sign up for the election. There's absolutely no way that Fudge," her words turned into bitter venom, "that idiot, would ever be re-elected. I dare you to go up to someone and ask them to state one good thing that Fudge has done for the community."
"He's done plenty of good things," Harry argued.
"Like what?" Hermione challenged.
His teeth caught onto his lower lip—and he prepared to tell Hermione a proportion of helpful things that Fudge had done for London. But, when Hermione pointed out his falter, his lips twisted into a vicious scowl. "I suppose you have a point, 'Mione."
"Exactly!" she agreed. "Even a frog could turn out to be a better Minister than him!"
Harry drew the phone closer to his ear, eyes full of mock concern. "Hush, Hermione. I don't want to be thrown in a jail cell for speaking treason about Minister Fudge. Next thing you know, you'll be rotting in the one next to mine."
"Next to yours," she repeated softly. "At least I'll be next to you."
Harry let a wobbly smile grace his lips for a brief moment. "It's been a delight speaking with you, 'Mione. But, Dumbledore is expecting me at Queensborough in less than twenty minutes, and you wouldn't want a poor soul to owe a debt to the bank for calling his dearest friend for too long, would you?"
Hermione snorted. "Tell that to the handful of coins in your pocket as well, won't you?"
Harry's eyes bulged. "How did you—" He cut himself off, not wanting to give Hermione the satisfaction she was pleading for. "Nevermind that. I'll talk to you later, and I hope that everything goes well with your job interview today."
"Thank you, Harry," Hermione blessed, but Harry could catch the trickle of nervousness that filled her voice at the reminder of that day's events. "I wish you the best."
She hung up before he had the chance to say goodbye.
Harry gently placed the device back on its rouge-colored holder, lacing his fingers together.
He could only hope that the day would go as well as Hermione promised it would.
Being an illusionist's apprentice had its costs.
Every so often, Harry would be required to attend one of Dumbledore's shows, and assist in setting up the stage or preparing the magic tricks. Usually, extravagant balls would be held afterward in the theater's grand room, wherest glasses would clink and bets would be made.
Mage Dumbledore wasn't a cross man, but he didn't particularly exceed the standards for being sincere. A pair of half-moon spectacles were always perched on the bridge of his nose—often coated in a glitter-like substance. When Harry had finally mustered up the courage to question the man about it, Dumbledore had only smiled.
Harry's glasses had fogged up from the cloud of fog resting outside of Queensborough—making his vision distorted, despite all of his awkward squinting. He cautiously slipped the frames off of his face, sending droplets of rain fluttering to the ground. He shook his head in disbelief at the ocean that seemed to fall off of his glasses lenses, before setting them slightly crooked on the tip of his nose—mocking Dumbledore in plain sight.
Queensborough was a fairly ancient building that had been constructed in the Victorian era, supposedly a demand to be built by the Queen herself. But, the construction had been delayed after Minister MacQuoid's office had burst into flames. Queensborough had remained as an unused castle and had been put in Dumbledore's position after a haughty request.
The rickety door to the castle swung open, and Harry fumbled to set his glasses straight.
Dumbledore's head tilted in curiosity as the man struggled to maintain his composure, before ushering him inside. "Welcome, my boy. My apologies for sending you off a tad late last night. Time loves to disappear, indeed."
Harry blinked. "Like your pocket watch, sir?"
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. "Precisely. Now, I've encountered a problem. The illusion I've been working on won't hold—and Heaven's forbid that I'll have to set that reflective glass straight once more. It flickers, like a candle that can't control its flame."
As Dumbledore led him up a set of cobblestone stairs, Harry let his fingers brush against the gold-colored railing bolted to the brick wall.
"Intriguing, indeed," Harry muttered, straightening the cuffs of his coat sleeves as they entered a change of scenery.
An expanse of chandeliers hung from the domed ceiling, lanterns glowing from their scattered places across the polished floor. The crystals from the chandeliers delicately shook as a rumble of thunder engulfed Queensborough—and for a split second—Harry feared that the ground would cave in. But, it ended as soon as it started, and Dumbledore continued forwards.
Harry's face morphed into one of distaste as the pounding rain attacked Queensborough eagerly.
Dumbledore noted Harry's disdainful expression with an amused curl of his lips and dragged the boy through a corridor to divert his attention from the ongoing storm outside. As they pattered through the tunnel—no walls in sight—the howling wind tore at their midnight-colored suits, and the hail pelted their flushed cheeks.
When the corridor came to an end, a fresh wave of fluorescent air washed over Harry in a sea of warmth. He shrugged off his overcoat as Dumbledore seated himself in a cushioned armchair.
The room was quite similar to the last, save for the expenses. It had more of a cottage-type feel to it, with a dark red carpet, and a burning heath next to a few sofas. In front of Dumbledore's chair was a lone wooden table, with a few candles gleaming on top.
"Harry, sit," Dumbledore commanded firmly.
Harry obeyed, sitting down on the couch across from the Mage.
"Harry watch."
Harry watched quietly as Dumbledore pulled up the sleeve of his plum suit, where a crystal-covered bracelet lay. Dumbledore shuffled across the room, glancing upwards a few times, before swirling his hands in delicate motions.
If Harry looked close enough, he could spot the mirrors that had been set up in the corners of the ceiling. He caught Dumbledore's mistake almost instantly.
"Sir, one of the mirrors is shattered," he stated.
The illusion that Dumbledore was holding up did indeed have a weak connection—growing brighter as if a firework display—than burning out to a few stray wisps. The galaxy-like figure waltzed across the room, nearly making Harry topple off of the couch when it took human form.
Dumbledore followed his intent gaze. "Ah, there we go. This is why you're valuable, Harry. I don't need to ask for your advice, because the advice is sitting right in front of me." He flashed the raven-haired boy a grin that wasn't returned. "No need to fret, Harry. Everything is at its best."
Dumbledore dug into his coat pocket, before pulling out what seemed to be a cookie. It was wrapped in clear silk, bright gems dancing along the outside of the cover.
When Harry shook his head furiously after spotting the delish, Dumbledore outstretched his hand. "Please, I insist. You deserve it, along with all the other hidden diamonds in the world."
Wrinkles creased between Harry's dark brows. "Hidden diamonds, sir?"
"Gems, glitter, magic, they all shine the same." The elder waved a lazy hand, adjusting his sparkly spectacles. "Now, you have given me what I wanted. I've already stolen too much precious time away from you, so go, and enjoy the rain."
Harry's frown grew deeper, tone filled with a mixture of humor and confusion. "Enjoy the rain?"
"Rain is lovely, Harry," Dumbledore said softly, tugging down his sleeve. "It wouldn't be so terrible to go on a stroll around St. Matthew's for a morning, would it? Pick up a cup of tea while you're at it." He tossed Harry a petite, brown bag, golden nuggets clanking against one another.
"Sir—" Harry winced, refusing to look down at the money Dumbledore had given him.
"Go on, my boy. I will see you tomorrow."
Harry shot Dumbledore one last glance over his shoulder, before returning to the street of St. Matthew's down below. The sidewalk was already bustling with husbands heading to work, women shopping for elaborate dresses, and children gleefully skipping around with lollipops in their sticky hands.
The downpour had quieted down to a faint trickle—much to Harry's relief.
"Yer, is that you, Mr. Potter?"
Harry whirled around in surprise, tugging on his collar as Hagrid sent him a nod in greeting. The man was hauling a pile of books into the shop, struggling to keep them from tipping over. Hagrid grappled with the door handle, the books tilting ever-so-slightly to the left . . .
Harry's eyes darted around the entity of St. Matthew's, where onlookers took on the sight with a sneer. Harry exhaled, pinching the bridge of his nose as he kicked open the door for Hagrid. The gruff man jolted in shock, before sending him a thankful smile.
Harry chewed on his thumbnail, remaining mute as Hagrid filed the titles onto a rusty bookshelf. His foot scraped back towards his side, and Harry slipped out of the exit before Hagrid had the chance to display his appreciation. His footsteps fell into a shaky pace on the sidewalk—placing the back of his hand against his forehead to ease a bit of the humidity that the weather had gifted London. He gulped, squeezing his eyes shut in a failed attempt to drive away from the exasperating heat.
"You're only making it worse," a smug voice inputted.
Harry's eyes fluttered open, and he craned his neck around until he caught sight of a dark-haired man. He looked to be about Harry's age, with heavy bags underneath his eyes, and lips spread into a coy smirk.
"If you want to lose the warmth, I'd recommend unbuttoning the first three buttons of your undershirt. Or, you could just leave London." The man scanned Harry. "It's not a place for everyone."
Harry recluntingly draped his overcoat over his forearm. The boy scoffed, darting towards him—fingers reaching for his collar—before Harry braced two hands against the stranger's chest, and the brown-haired man was sent flying into a nearby fence. But, he didn't look angered, nor furious. Utter amusement crossed his handsome face.
"Curious, indeed," the boy whispered, more to himself than Harry.
Yet, Harry still fumed. "Curious indeed? What's so curious about defending myself?"
The man hauled himself off of the ground, brushing invisible specks of dust off of his suit. It looked higher quality than Harry's, with silky lapels, and coal-like buttons. Money practically dripped off of it. "It's curious that you think you need to defend yourself from an old friend. Why so shy, Potter?"
Harry recoiled, bursts of blooming roses spreading across his vision. "Nott."
Theodore Nott sighed dramatically, wiping sparkling beads of sweat off of his pale forehead. "Good, so you do remember me. For a second I thought I had lost you. How's everything going, Potter? Still getting all of the ladies?" An unsettling gleam took place in Nott's eyes as Harry tried to push past him. "I asked you a question. And I prefer my questions to be answered."
"I'm fine," Harry grunted, wincing when Nott gripped his shoulders with such force, that his shoulder blades felt like they would shatter.
"Thank you for asking," Nott added cooly. "I've been doing quite well, myself. Pansy and I are to be married in June, and my father signed over the Nott Manor in my possession."
Harry couldn't put a finger on what the catch was. He could clearly tell that Nott wanted something, but he didn't know what. So Harry did what he did best, and looked the boy straight in the eye. His cold glare seemed a little harsh—even to him—but he had to remind himself that it was the only way that he was going to be able to escape out of Nott's clutch.
The retort slid past his lips easier than he thought it would, slapping Nott's face in the process. "I do wonder what your daddy's going to give you next. One of those jeweled carriages? Another betrothed? Or perhaps the money for you to buy his gravestone."
Nott's grip on Harry loosened slightly as he hesitated. "My father has many years before he passes. But you, you might just be the exception, Potter. Seems like all this time away from boarding school has made you forget about who your superiors are, and how to respect them. I am the heir to the Ancient and Most Noble House of Nott, one of the most honored families in all of Britain—"
"I know exceptionally well who my superiors are, and you are not one of them," Harry hissed.
Nott's eyes darkened, effectively cutting Harry off. "Oh, my apologies. Is it too difficult for the great Harry Potter to say one nice thing to someone other than his little goblins?"
"Ron and Hermione are not goblins," Harry seethed. His nails dug into his palms, sending rivers of crimson cascading down his wrists. "If anyone is the goblin here, it's you."
All of Nott's previous rage seemed to evaporate. "I hope to see you again sometime soon, Potter. You should really stop by Borgin and Burkes. All of us are dying to get an autograph. Literally." His stare drifted down to Harry's muddy boots, perfect nose scrunching up in disgust. "Go to the end of the block and turn left. There's a nice little alleyway that you get to walk down. Farewell, Potter."
It took a moment before realization settled into Harry's mind. "I'd rather die than take a left."
Nott swung back around, lips curving in a predatory manner. "Then you may find yourself in trouble, Harry Potter, for it will be incredibly difficult to avoid all of the wrong turns in your life from this point on."
Nott bowed his head, whistling a light tune as he strode away towards that blasted set of directions that he gave Harry—whose hands clenched into white-knuckled fists.
As Theodore Nott disappeared out of sight—and into the mouth of the fog—Harry couldn't help but wonder what wrong turns Nott thought was in for him.
